


Iron and Thorns

by VagrantWriter



Series: Iron and Blood [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Minor Violence, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, show!Margaery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-13 12:19:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7976602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories about the women who would have changed Theon Greyjoy's life if their paths had ever crossed.</p><p>Theon meets an ally in Kings Landing. Direct sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3194789/chapters/6945674">Iron and Silk</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in love with show!Margaery, so this will definitely be taking notes from the show, though Willas is still around.

“You may come in.”

As if he had a choice.

Theon entered the Queen’s solar escorted by two goldcloaks. The Queen was seated at a table near the open balcony doors, a pitcher of wine in front of her and a half-filled goblet in one hand. She didn’t turn to face them, instead calling over her shoulder, “In the future, when the Queen requests your presence, you are to come right away.”

“I came at my earliest convenience, Your Grace,” Theon said through gritted teeth.

“Yes, I’m sure you did.” She lifted the goblet and took an unwomanly drink. “Next time you decide to put off one of my requests, I’ll have the guards bring me your head instead.”

She was obviously deeply into her cups, but Theon didn’t put it past her to make good on her threat. He didn’t put much past her, in honesty.

She set her goblet down and waved her hand dismissively at the guards. Her many gold rings flashed in the light. “Leave us.”

The guards nodded and left. The door closed heavily behind them.

“If you keep telling them to leave us alone together, the court will start talking,” Theon commented, not feeling any of his usual barb.

Cersei still didn’t turn to face him, but beckoned him closer with her finger. “Come, sit.”

He did, taking the seat across from her. A second goblet had been set out for him. He wasn’t interested in her wine, or anything she had to offer. He’d rather shatter it and use the broken glass to cut her throat, but they both knew he wouldn’t even try. Instead he sat with his hands folded in his lap and glared at the tabletop. “You wished to speak with me, Your Grace?”

“Ah, hmm…” She poured herself another glass. “Tell me, Greyjoy, you’re a young, _virile_ man.” She was mocking him. “What do you think of Margaery Tyrell?”

“Margaery Tyrell?” he repeated. “The King’s new fiancée?” He’d been there when Joffrey had set Sansa aside in favor of a bride with land and money and armies. He hadn’t given her much thought beyond gratitude that Sansa was no longer in her position. And perhaps that he’d seen whores who covered more skin. In answer to Cersei, he shrugged. “She seems a fine match for your son.”

To his surprise, Cersei threw her goblet at him. He lifted his arm to protect his face, and blood-red wine splattered across his sleeve and doublet. The goblet clattered on the ground but didn’t shatter. “The little bitch,” Cersei hissed, standing and pushing her chair back. “Seducing my son with her wiles, her pretty face.”

Theon was entirely uncertain what to say.

“Tell me the truth, Greyjoy? Would you fuck her?”

“Your Grace, I—”

“Would you fuck her tight little cunt?”

Theon gripped the armrests. What was this about? Was she trying to mock him? < _Maybe I’ll let you fuck me after all. >_ Memories of her clutching the back of his head, holding him in place. < _Beg me like you’re a maiden. > _How long was she going to draw this out?

“No,” he said. “I don’t want to fuck her. I don’t want to _touch_ her. I will avert my gaze whenever I see her, if that’s what would please Your Grace.”

She glowered at him for a moment.

“What _do_ you want, Greyjoy?”

His knuckles popped with how tight he was holding the armrests. “Whatever pleases Your Grace.”

“Now, now.” She came around the side of the table. Her dress rustled along the floor, but he could hear her shoes. She wasn’t bare underneath. She wasn’t going to…

She knelt down and put a hand against his jaw. He pulled away, but she was insistent, forcing him to look up and into her dead, green eyes.

“Do you want to go home?”

She’d offered that before, in exchange for writing a letter to Robb. And yet here he still was, in Kings Landing. She couldn’t be trusted. He’d known it for a long time now. There was no way in the Drowned God’s watery halls that he was going to fall for her false promises again.

“I will send you home,” she said, still caressing his face. It repulsed him. “I will give you whatever you want.” She leaned in closer, her breath hot against his ear. “ _Anything_.”

He tried to wriggle out of her grasp.

“I will name you King of the Iron Islands.”

He stopped at that. He could feel her grinning against his ear.

“Does that appeal to you, Lord Greyjoy? I will give the Ironborn reign of the North once the Starks are put down. Perhaps you will be Prince of Winterfell until your father passes. Or perhaps I will unseat Balon and give you the Iron Islands instead, by my royal decree.”

He didn’t trust her. Not for one moment did he believe she would actually do it.

“What do I need to do in return?” he asked.

“Simple. I want you to seduce Margaery Tyrell.”

 

***

 

The palace gardens were a fair bit pleasanter than the battle camps. And yet Margaery would not be surprised if her grandmother preferred the latter. She looked like a war general today, setting out the cyvasse pieces as Margaery ducked into the pavilion—the old woman’s council tent among the climbing ivy.

“Good morning, Grandmother.”

“Is it?” Without looking up from her work, she waved Margaery over.

Margaery sat across from her and studied the board. She tapped her finger on the dragon piece, the sharp edges of its wings worn from her grandmother’s many years of playing this board. “I spoke with Sansa. She is quite receptive to the idea of marrying Willas.”

“Good,” Olenna said curtly.

“I was a bit worried she wouldn’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Well…because she’s infatuated with the Greyjoy boy.”

“Tell you this herself, did she?”

“I can read between the lines, Grandmother.”

Olenna hummed in agreement and finished laying out the board. “I will admit, he’s a bit of a wild piece in our game. The Greyjoys would be valuable allies—better than enemies at any rate—and they could prove useful when the time comes to turn the Northmen back to their frozen wasteland. Unfortunately, we can’t buy this one with a marriage. Well, unless he fancies marrying Loras. He _does_ strike me as the sort.” She sat back in her chair. “Your move, dear.”

Margaery thought for a moment. A crossbowman was always a bit of a risk on the opening move, but it could pay off well several moves down the line. She picked the piece up and moved it. “By all accounts, he hates the Lannisters as much as Sansa does.”

“They are not difficult to hate.”

“No, but it may prove difficult to approach him.”

“You’ll find a way, dear, I’m sure.”

Margaery smirked. “What are you implying, Grandmother?”

“Nothing.” She reached for her turn, ignoring Margaery’s risky opening move. “Absolutely nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This particular installment is, as of yet, not completed. Truthfully, I may have written myself into a corner with this one. -_-


	2. Chapter 2

Theon checked his hair in the mirror one last time. Straightened his collar. Made sure his belt was at an appropriate, rakish angle over his hips. If Lady Margaery was unimpressed, she truly was a frigid bitch and Theon almost pitied her would-be husband. Well, that is, _if_ her would-be husband were anyone other than Joffrey.

He found her in one of the scenic towers overlooking the harbor, surrounded by her brood of hens. Cersei had been right; he could hear their tittering long before he saw them. They stopped their conversation as he swaggered in, then immediately began giggling behind cupped hands.

Before he’d come to the royal court, Theon had always found a certain enjoyment in the giggling of girls. Their blushing, the way they would look away whenever he caught them staring. It all bespoke an appreciative sort of shyness.

Now it just felt like they were laughing at him.

He forced a practiced smile. “Good morning, ladies.” He winked at one of Margaery’s more homely handmaidens, who quickly turned her gaze towards the table and smiled through a crimson blush.

“Lord Greyjoy,” Margaery responded, standing to greet him. The others followed suit, like mindless marionettes. “To what do we owe this pleasure?” There was a fake earnestness in her voice, but it much preferable to Cersei’s cloying fake sweetness.

Theon looked up and down the hallway, as if he had not expected to find himself here on his daily walk. “Just passing by this way,” he said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your tea time, but I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced, Your Grace.”

“Best not let Cersei hear you calling me that,” Margaery said slyly. “I’m not Queen yet.”

“Lady Margaery, then,” he said. “It is an honor.” He held out his hands for hers, and when her small hand was in his own, he turned it over and brushed his lips along her knuckles. Keeping his eyes on her to gauge her reaction.

There was no reaction. She continued to smile. “The honor is all mine, Lord Greyjoy.”

“Please, my Lady, I would be honored if you called me Theon.”

“Theon,” she acknowledged. “You are most well-mannered. I’m almost disappointed. I had heard the Ironborn were quite…brutish.”

Her hens clucked and tittered again. Theon held his smile, but Margaery shot them a disapproving look.

“Oh, enough, you,” she said, without a trace of harshness in her voice. Then, she leaned towards him and in a not-quite-whisper said, “Ignore them. They were hoping to see some of this Ironborn…prowess everyone is always speaking of.”

This sent them into another round of giggling. Theon graced them with a tight-lipped smile.

“And no, you weren’t interrupting at all,” Margaery said. “In fact, I was just about to take an afternoon walk down by the water. Would you join me?” She slipped her arm through his. “Perhaps you could tell me about the ships in the harbor.”

“It would be my honor, my Lady.” He’d been about to suggest a walk himself, but the fact that _she’d_ invited _him_ was a good sign. A very good sign indeed. She was receptive.

They left the hens behind but picked up several guards on their way out of the tower. It would be indecent for a young woman to be seen walking with a man who was not her betrothed, especially if her betrothed was the King. The goldcloaks followed at a respectful distance, though, which allowed Margaery and Theon to exchange pleasant, empty conversation.

“How are you liking it in the south?” Margaery asked as they walked. The stones of the Red Keep kept the interior cool, for the most part, but once they were outside, the air became stale and humid, too heavy to even breathe. Theon envied Margaery her revealing attire; _her_ clothing didn’t stick to her back with unsightly sweat.

“Very much,” he answered her. “It is very…” _Don’t say what you’re thinking_. “Warm,” he decided on. A bead of sweat dripped down his temple and landed under his collar. He hoped she didn’t notice, didn’t think he was nervous. “The women are infinitely more charming.”

She smiled at that, and all the while, Theon thought about Cersei’s instructions. _Seduce Margaery Tyrell. Get her to come willingly, eagerly into your bed. You can manage it, I’m sure. Your task afterwards will be to come to me. We will go straight away to the Small Council, where you will testify personally to Margaery’s disloyalty._

He’d underestimated how much Cersei hated this other woman. He realized now that the torment she’d put him through was merely a distraction for her; she’d been playing with him. He shuddered to think what she could do if she truly hated him.

In a way, he felt sorry for Margaery. She seemed a sweet enough girl. Smiling vacantly, accepting the platitudes he threw her way. She reminded him of Sansa. But Cersei’s orders were quite clear. As well as her threat should he refuse. 

They made their way down the long, winding steps to the sea wall. Theon skipped the last few stairs then turned and held out a hand to help Margaery. She accepted with another beatific smile. “You are quite the chivalrous knight, my Lord,” she said. “No wonder Sansa speaks so highly of you. To hear her, you’d think you’re Florian reborn.”

“Sansa?” Theon allowed Margaery’s hand to slip from his. “You’ve been speaking with Sansa?” And she’d been speaking of him? What had she said? Had she told them about how he’d gotten on his knees and licked Joffrey’s boots? Because if she had, this seduction was over before it had begun. Better she thought him a nervous greenboy than a cowering dog.

“She is a sweet girl,” Margaery said, heedless of his discomfort. All for the best.

He breathed a sigh of relief as they continued their walk down to the water. The guards followed, silent but very much present.

“My heart aches for her, poor thing,” Margaery continued. “To have witnessed her father’s death the way she did…” She trailed off but shot Theon a meaningful look.

“Eddard Stark was a traitor to the realm,” Theon answered immediately, in well-trained fashion.

She seemed almost disappointed by his response, which surprised him, but she quickly made her face into one of sympathy. “Ah, I forgot that he was your captor for many years. Forgive me, my Lord. I should consider my words more carefully.”

“Eddard Stark was a traitor to the realm,” he repeated, and was glad when she seemed content to let the matter go.

They came to the seawall and followed a well-worn set of stone steps down to the beach. The guards continued to follow beside them, up on the wall. Theon was glad of their distance.

The beach here was smooth and sandy, not like the rocky beaches of Pyke. Out across the harbor, boats from all over the Seven Kingdoms were moored, their colorful sails flapping in the sea breeze. Theon took in a deep breath and felt the salt enter his lungs, along with the fishy smell of low tide. It was different down here, this far south, but still familiar in its own way.

“I’ve missed the sea,” he said, more to himself than Margaery. He picked up a rock and skipped it across the water. It bounced five times before going under.

Margaery gasped and clapped like a giddy maiden. “Oh, could you teach me to do that?”

Theon shrugged. He didn’t much feel like teaching this empty-headed girl how to play children’s games. “Maybe later,” he evaded, and took her hand in his own. “I don’t think a lady such as yourself should be dirtying her hands in the sand.”

She jutted out her lower lip like a child. “Then you at least must tell me about where you’re from. I’ve heard so many stories about the Iron Islands. I’ve heard your people are formidable force by sea. They say you are second to none in all of Westeros.”

“In all the world, I imagine,” Theon corrected. “It took the combined forces of the other six kingdoms to put down my father’s rebellion. And in the end, King Robert had to take the most valuable thing he possessed to get him to bend the knee.” He flashed her a winsome smile. “Me,” he added, since she probably needed it put in plain terms for her.

Instead of being impressed, she drew her thin eyebrows together in…sympathy? “That must have been difficult for you. Being taken from your home at such a young age.”

“I’ve survived.”

“Yes, my Lord, you have.” She put a gentle hand on his arm. “Still, it was an awful thing for King Robert to order. You are very brave.”

It felt good to have a little recognition of the fact, but the flightiness of her touch caused his skin to crawl. This was a trap. She was feeling out his alliances. Not very well, if she thought he couldn’t see straight through her. “The Crown has a duty and a right,” he said quickly. “My people fought fiercely, but all in the name of a foolish rebellion. King Robert showed unprecedented mercy in his actions.”

He didn’t want to talk about this with her. He didn’t want to talk about his father, or his brothers, or anything that had happened after the rebellion.

“This isn’t appropriate talk for a lady such as yourself. Why don’t you, instead, tell me about where you’re from? I’ve never been to High Garden, but I imagine it must be a beautiful place to have produced such a lovely flower.”

“Oh, it’s beautiful, but I’m afraid you’d find it very dull, my Lord. We are not a hard people, not like yours.”

“And I suppose the Lannisters owe you no thanks for liberating the city during Stannis’s attack.” He didn’t know if complimenting her family’s military prowess would flatter her or not. That was the game at this point. Keep her flattered. Keep her charmed. Smile. Invite without saying a single word.

She glanced up at him through long lashes. Her eyes were a deep, deep green, just a shade darker than Cersei’s. It unnerved him. He wanted to look away. He wanted to wade out into the water and keep going until Kings Landing and all its green-eyed women were far behind him.

Instead, he smiled.

“Lord Greyjoy…Theon…” She took a tentative step closer and put a slender hand on his chest. Theon could feel the guards tensing from their lookout position. Margaery’s face scrunched up, as if she were about to say something serious. But the question that left her mouth was, “Do you play cyvasse?”

“I…am afraid I don’t, my Lady,” he responded, after a beat of confusion.

“I could teach you,” she said.

“I would like that.”

She smiled, and he knew he had pleased her.

“You should join me in the gardens,” she said. Her eyes flickered to the two guards. “We could have some privacy there. I would love to teach you to play.” She drew her hand back.

Theon had to fight to keep his smile charming and not shit-eating. She was practically jumping on his cock already, making this far too easy. He took her hand as she withdrew it and placed another kiss on his knuckles. “It would be my pleasure, Lady Margaery.”

 

***

 

“I spoke with the Greyjoy boy today,” Margaery commented.

Olenna looked up from steeping her tea. “And?”

“Men consistently disappoint me with how easy they are to influence.” She chewed on her fingernails and stared out over the cliff. From here, she could see the beach where they’d walked this morning. It had been far too easy to lead him, both physically and during their shallow conversations, and yet all the while he remained completely oblivious. Though she was surprised by the genuine twinge of sympathy she’d felt for him, imagining him as a lost boy so far from home.

He was a simple boy, she’d known that from the start. He’d lived up to the court’s accounts of him. Just like Sansa. And like Sansa, being made a piece in their game would prove beneficial for all parties. An opportunity to improve his circumstances.

Olenna took a sip of her tip, made a face that she was not very impressed by it. “I hope I don’t need to remind you not to underestimate your enemies _or_ your allies, my dear.” She took another sip, then seemed to decide it wasn’t worth drinking anymore and poured it over the side of the pavilion. “Even if they _are_ men.”


	3. Chapter 3

Theon realized he’d missed dressing up. When he’d been confined to his room, he had often not bothered to put on any of his court clothes. And the weeks following the…encounter with Cersei, he had hardly bothered to dress at all, or comb his hair, or leave his room or eat. And then the Battle of Blackwater Bay had happened, and he’d been placed with the archers on the wall and told that if he wanted to survive the night, he would defend the city. And defend he did, because as much as he wanted to see the walls crumble and Joffrey’s head on a pike and Cersei fucked by every man in Stannis’s army, he also didn’t want to die. And perhaps, once or twice during the night, he’d thought of Sansa, locked away in the Keep with the other women.

In any case, he’d not had much time or occasion to use his fancy clothes, the ones he’d gotten specifically for his time in the south. But now that Margaery had offered to give him private “cyvasse” lessons, he could bring the fine silks and satins out of his chest of drawers, his gold brocades and brooches, his finest attire. He even spent the early part of the morning shaving so that his chin was smooth, the way the ladies in the south seemed to like it. For the first time in a long time, he smiled when he looked into the mirror.

He hurried down the gardens and only slowed his pace to an acceptable gait when he came within sighting distance of Lady Margaery’s pavilion. It was an iron thing overlooking the harbor, with ivy and thorny rose bushes climbing the trellis. With this, it was well-shaded from the southern sun. Margaery sat at the table within, idly cooling herself with a hand fan. She smiled as he approached and bowed.

“My Lady.”

“My Lord.”

She folded her fan and with it motioned for him to sit opposite her. The cyvasse board had been laid out on the table, the pieces all lined up, as far as Theon could tell. They did not often play cyvasse in the North, instead opting for backgammon. It had a reputation of being a game for women and thinking men, not the sort of thing Theon would allow himself to be caught playing.

“How did you sleep?” Margaery asked.

“Fine, my Lady,” he replied. “I had wonderful dreams.”

She raised one eyebrow. “Oh? Did you?”

“I dreamt I had made a green-eyed woman very happy.”

Her other eyebrow rose. “Oh?” she repeated.

“They say those with the blood of the First Men can sometimes see the future in their dreams.” He had rolled his eyes when Old Nan had told them this, but now he could use it to play up his mysterious foreigner persona. “The Northmen and the Ironborn both share the blood of the First Men, so I am hoping my dream becomes reality and that I’m able to please this green-eyed woman.”

“And how did you please her?” Margaery asked. “In your dream?”

“The way a man pleases any woman.” He smiled. “By doing exactly as she tells him.”

She laughed at that. “I’m beginning to see where you get your reputation from, Lord Greyjoy.”

“My…reputation?” He tried not to sound too nervous, but it was obvious the direction this conversation was headed. He’d steered it there himself, inviting his “reputation” to come into play.

“All the court ladies say you are quite the devil. And I know that more than a few of the gentlemen are intimidated by your…Ironborn prowess.”

“What…what do they say?” He swallowed and rolled his tongue around in his mouth. It felt thick, his throat too tight. Normally, he would preen at such flattery, but he dreaded what he would hear. He dreaded she would name names, repeat that lie that had brought him nothing but one debasement after another.

Margaery’s eyes were not on his face but on his hands, and that was when he realized he’d been drumming his fingers nervously on his knees. He forced them to still.

“They say you—”

He’d changed his mind. He didn’t want to hear what they said, who they said he’d bedded. He nearly bolted out of his chair. “I didn’t fuck her! I never fucked Cersei!” He could tell his outburst had startled her, perhaps even frightened her, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Anyone who says so is a liar and a traitor. Cersei is—I would never—I didn’t. She— _she’s_ the one…”

_Stop_! His mind caught up with him. _Stop talking, you idiot_!

He collapsed back into his chair and flung a hand over his face in embarrassment. He didn’t know what had compelled him to break apart like that. He used to brag of the girls he’d bedded, sometimes embellishing his exploits for Robb and Jon’s benefits, but he did not want others knowing…suspecting how thoroughly the Queen owned him, how she had unmanned him.

_Pathetic, so pathetic_.

Margaery didn’t react, stunned into silence.

“My Lady…” Theon slowly peeled his hand from his face. His cheeks felt wet, as if he’d been crying. He knew it was the heat of the southern air; it made him drip with sweat. He hoped she wouldn’t mistake his sweat for tears. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have—”

“Perhaps,” she interrupted, rearranging herself in her chair, sitting up taller, “we should stop chasing each other around the bush.”

He stared at her, uncertain of her meaning.

She leaned over and put a hand on his knee. “What do you want, Theon?”

“I want…” The question was direct and unexpected. “I want to serve the Crown, my Lady.”

“No, what do you _want_ , Theon? Truly.”

“As I said, my Lady. I know my father was a traitor, but I have never been anything other than a loyal sub—”

Margaery silenced him with a smile. “You’re a better liar than Sansa, but I imagine you’ve had a bit more practice. But here’s the thing. A liar knows a liar.”

“My Lady, I—”

“What do you _want_?”

Silence. She waited, patiently.

“I…want to go home,” he managed to stutter out.

She cocked her head. Tendrils of her wavy hair fell over her shoulder at the motion. “That’s all?”

“That’s all I want.”

“You don’t want a wife or a castle somewhere warm and prosperous?”

“With all due respect, my Lady…” He took a deep breath. “No. I only want what’s mine by birthright. I only want the castle that became mine the day King Robert killed my brothers. The day I was—” He stopped short. Once again, he’d said too much. “Forgive me, my Lady. I spoke out of line. Of course—”

She waved off his platitudes. “A simple enough request,” she said casually. “Perhaps not for any other man, but for you…” She nodded, as if reaching a decision. “I could arrange a cabin for you on one of our north-going vessels. If that’s truly all you want.”

“It’s all I’ve wanted since I was nine,” he answered. Realization was coming slowly. Was she…offering to help him? To send him home? “What…do you want in return? I’ll—” Do anything? No, he still had _some_ dignity. “I’ll swear the Ironborn to the Crown. The Tyrell Crown, that is. That’s what you want from me, isn’t it?”

She sat back and studied him approvingly. “You have a good sense of give and take…for a man. Most men do not appreciate they can be bought as easily as they can buy.” She played absently with the pleats of her skirt, allowing him glimpses of her legs beneath.

He grinned in return, getting her meaning. Perhaps she was not the empty-headed little thing he’d first thought. “It is a nice distraction, my Lady, but I know a bit about buying and being bought myself. I was given away—not even bought—when I was nine years old, after all.”

Margaery’s face became sympathetic, and Theon realized he couldn’t tell if she was being genuine or not. “I believe I’ve misjudged you. I thought you were the worst parts of Sansa and my brother put together. Don’t get me wrong, I love them both dearly, but I’d thought…”

“You’d thought you could buy me,” he finished, realizing it as he spoke it out loud. All the flattery, the insipid conversation meant to stroke his ego. She’d been playing him all along. He had to laugh. He really had been an idiot. “And here I thought my charm had just knocked the wits from your head. It was the only explanation I could come up with for how easy you were making it.”

“Funny, I thought the same of you.”

“Your technique could use a bit of work,” he chuckled. “If Cersei had not ordered me to seduce you, I wouldn’t have given you a moment’s thought.”

Margaery threw back her head and laughed. “Cersei? Ordered _you_ to seduce _me_? She must truly believe I am a fool.”

“She is not fond of you, no.”

“What did she offer you in return? To send you home? Do you believe she’ll keep her word…if you succeed? If you run back to her with proof that I am not a pure virgin for her precious little boy?”

“Cersei?” he asked incredulously. “She has already revoked a promise to me once. But…I have little recourse, you see.” 

Margaery’s face grew serious. “I will never revoke a promise I give you,” she said sternly. “If you promise to pledge your allegiance to me when I am Queen, then I promise to send you home on the earliest possible ship. Do we have an agreement?”

Theon thought for a moment. “May I ask something else of you, my Lady?”

She turned her head and watched him out of the corner of her eye. “You may _ask_.”

“Allow Sansa to come with me.”

Margaery continued to watch him for a moment, then looked away, as if distracted. “I can’t.”

“She doesn’t belong here, with these people. You must know it. Let me take her back North, to her family. She has suffered enough.”

“Back to her family? You don’t intend to wed her yourself?”

Once, perhaps.

When he didn’t answer, Margaery tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. “You grew up with her. You want to do right by her. I can understand that, but I can’t allow it. Sansa is betrothed to my brother Willas. She will become Lady of High Garden. She will be protected from Cersei and Joffrey…and Littlefinger. She will be taken care of. I promise you.”

Promise. What good was a promise from Margaery Tyrell?

“If I leave her here, she will never see her family again.” He spread his hands wide. “They are all traitors.”

Margaery had no answer for that.

“I understand your position, my Lady.” He stood and bowed. “I am grateful for your generosity and accept your agreement.”

Margaery held up a hand to keep him from leaving too quickly. “When Sansa is my good-sister,” she said, “I will see her often at High Garden. Perhaps I will teach her to play cyvasse.”

Theon nodded. “I’m sure she would enjoy that, my Lady.”

 

***

 

“Our alliance with the Greyjoys is set,” Margaery announced. “All it will cost us is one cabin on one of our north-going vessels, which I imagine could be arranged within the week. They could land in neutral territory, perhaps in the Riverlands so as not to endanger our ship.”

Olenna did not look up from the cyvasse board. The game had already been played, the pieces still in their finishing places. Her grandmother seemed to be going over the game in her head. She had won against her opponent, but only just barely, hence the look of consternation on her face. Whoever had tested her so well was not there now, so Margaery took the empty seat.

“I was wrong about Theon, Grandmother. He’s…well, not intelligent, but he knows things. He guards himself well and plays the idiot for the court. I daresay he and Sansa may make a good match. As it stands, his only request was to be allowed to return home to—”

“No,” Olenna said curtly. Then, finally looking up, “He cannot be allowed to leave.”

Margaery blinked in surprise. “Whyever not?”

“Forget the alliance. The Greyjoy boy has become a piece in a much bigger game.”


	4. Chapter 4

“You’re getting better at coming when called.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Theon answered stiffly.

Cersei made a delicate mark with her pen, then set it aside. Looked up, folded her hands on the desk in front of her. “Then why are you dragging your feet on your task?”

The task of seducing Margaery Tyrell.

“I’m working on it, Your Grace.”

Cersei gave a disgusted sigh and stood. Theon took one automatic step back, remembering how she had lashed out at him last time. Now, however, she just crossed the room, hands clasping either elbow, and stood at the balcony doorway, looking out over the castle grounds. “Working on it,” she repeated. “Tell me, does it often take a fortnight to seduce a woman? I believe even _I_ could do better than that.”

Theon looked at the ground. “I will tell you the moment I’ve made progress.”

Silence. She could pierce straight through his lie, he just knew it.

“You know of Varys’s little birds,” she said. “And you know that I have little birds of my own. But it’s one in particular I’ve heard chirping the loudest recently. A little dove.”

Theon went completely rigid.

“She is all atwitter, so pleased that Theon Greyjoy is becoming fast friends with her good-sister.”

“Sansa is a naïve little girl.”

“Naïve, yes. The little idiot doesn’t even know that her wedding to Lord Tyrell has been cancelled.”

“What?”

“Oh?” She turned slowly, a look of mock surprise on her face. “You didn’t know either? My father was not best pleased when he heard the Tyrells were arranging marriages behind his back…so he arranged a few of his own. Sansa is set to marry my brother, the Imp.” Her lip curled into a cat’s grin.

It felt like someone had punched him in the gut, but Theon refused to reel. “You can’t allow that! He’s—”

“Horrible, I know,” she answered. “I would love to be there when she receives the news…to comfort the poor dear, of course. Now, as for you…” She placed a slender hand to her chin, as if contemplating. “Lady Stokeworth has been quite loud since the incident in the market…”

The incident? Was that what they were calling the mob riot, to make it sound like they weren’t losing control of the masses? Theon had been there. He’d watched as the King had been whisked away by his monstrous bodyguard. Theon had had to fight his way out on his own. Nobody had come for him. He’d been lucky to get away with a bruised face and bloody scratches where dozens of hands had been reaching for him, trying to pull him apart. Lady Stokeworth’s daughter had not been so lucky.

“My father agrees that marrying you to Lollys might ameliorate the woman.”

“And if I refuse?” he demanded.

Cersei tapped her chin. “I’m sorry, did I give you the impression you had the right to refuse?”

“You promised to send me home!”

“If you got Margaery to spread her legs for you. Instead, you’ve been scheming with her.” She abandoned her spot by the window and came at him. He backed away, but her hands shot out, quick as a striking animal, and latched onto his face. Sharp fingernails dug into his cheeks. He tried to pull out of her grasp, but she held on like a feral cat. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing, talking to that rose bitch, plotting my downfall?”

“No, Your Grace, it’s not—”

She dug deeper, until it felt like she would break through his face. “You traitorous little whore!” she bellowed. “I could have had your head taken off months ago! I could have had you locked away in the deepest, darkest cell under the Red Keep where nobody would ever find you!” She forced him down on his knees. “I gave you a task. A task I thought even _you_ were capable of, one you might even enjoy.”

Theon gritted his teeth and clenched his hands, unable to fight back. “I…I’m sorry, Your Grace. Please…” _Margaery, please! I need your help! I need your ship, tonight! Get me out of this place!_

Then, suddenly, she released him. Pushed him back. He fell onto his haunches and sat there, mouth open in shock. He felt along his cheek, felt the crescent-shaped indents she’d left, and his hand came away smeared with blood.

“I don’t think you properly fear me, Greyjoy.”

He stared up at her. “I do, Your Grace.” Without hesitation, he said it. No shame left. He _was_ afraid of her, terrified. More terrified than he’d ever been of Ned Stark.

“You don’t think I’ll follow through on my threats.”

More than he believed she’d follow through on her promises. He nodded. “I do, Your Grace.”

“Good, because I’m giving you one last chance. If you fail me this time, I will make you disappear. My father will not be pleased. The Stokeworths will not be pleased. But no one will come looking for you.” She touched her index finger to the middle of his forehead. “No one will miss you.”

“Your Grace, I…” What could he say to her? “Lady Margaery already knows that you sent me and why.”

Cersei’s lip curled again. She seemed almost pleased to have her suspicions confirmed. “One way or another, Greyjoy, you need to fuck her.”

“One way or…?”

“Do I need to teach you to walk and use a chamber pot as well?” Her hands were in his hair. He panicked, remembering another time when she’d grabbed him this way. She pulled his head up so their eyes could meet. Dark green stared back at him. “I don’t care _how_ you do it. If you come back to me and the bitch has not been thoroughly fucked, _one way or another_ , then it will be _you_ who’s getting fucked.”

 

***

 

There was much to think about as he made his way back to his room. Cersei’s orders had been clear. Beyond clear. Could he do what she was asking of him?

On the one hand, yes. Taking and raping were in his blood, in every Ironborn’s blood. The Ironborn didn’t seduce, they didn’t ask, not for anything. On the other hand, no. Margaery was not some commoner, some salt wife. She was a highborn lady and someone, dare he say it, he had come to like. The thought of hurting her was akin to the thought of hurting Sansa. Memories of when Joffrey had offered to “reward” Theon with Sansa’s maidenhead. It had been an easy thing to refuse then. He would not hurt Sansa for Joffrey’s sake, and he would not hurt Margaery for Cersei’s sake.

There were other considerations. Less…womanish considerations. For one, he would be punished, harshly, for forcing himself on a highborn woman. Cersei had waved away these concerns—the only ones he dared voice to her—saying he could easily lie, easily tell the court how much she had enjoyed it, begged for it even. She’d reveled in the thought and just as easily dismissed his suggestion that he could lie about bedding her in the first place. Surely Margaery was no virgin, surely there was no need to actually…

“No,” she’d hissed. “There must be no doubt. And if you won’t do it, I’ll find somebody who will.”

Perhaps…perhaps it would be kinder if he did? Perhaps if he went to Margaery, warned her what was coming, she would…what? Protect herself, of course. But what of him? Would she protect him as well from Cersei’s wrath? Would she send him home, as she had promised? It had been two weeks since their meeting in the garden, and every chance he’d had to ask, she’d answered evasively with an, “Arrangements are being made.” He was not sure how much he could trust her. He had _thought_ …

As he walked the winding staircase, lost in his own thoughts, he became aware of a sound besides the steady clicking of his boots. It was a faint, muffled sniffling, like a child crying. He slowed his pace, and as he rounded the last bend of the winding stairs, he saw a figure huddled against his door. A head of red hair cradled in its arms.

“Sansa.”

She looked up. Her face was red, her eyes red, all of her red. She wiped at her cheeks, as if to hide the obvious. “Theon, I…” She paused when she caught sight of his face. Immediately, she was on her feet, abandoning her post on the floor. “Oh, Theon, what happened to your face?”

He pulled away when she tried to take his face in her hands. “It’s nothing.”

But she could see. She could tell that it wasn’t _nothing_. She could tell the crescent-shaped marks were from fingernails, from a woman’s fingernails. “She did this to you, didn’t she?” Her face grew hard. “That awful woman.”

“Shh,” he hissed, looking up and down the corridor. Cersei surely had people tailing him, otherwise he would have hauled Sansa into his room so they could speak privately. “It’s nothing,” he repeated. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

She looked unconvinced.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

Fresh tears brimmed in her eyes. “Oh, Theon. They just told me…I’m not marrying Willas anymore. I’m marrying the Imp. They’re _making_ me marry the Imp. Cersei saw that I was too happy, so she devised—”

“Hush,” Theon said, pulling her close. “Don’t say her name.”

“Littlefinger said he would take me away from here, but I turned him down. And now…”

“Good,” he said. “It’s good that you turned him down. You don’t want anything Littlefinger has to offer.”

She was silent for a moment, staring up at him with her big, blue eyes, swimming with tears. “Is it true what they say, though? About the Imp? That he…brings a new woman to his room every night? A new…whore? They say he has…unnatural appetites.”

Theon had heard the stories, possibly ones lewder than the ones she had.

“I can’t marry him, Theon.” She buried her face into his chest.

Caught off guard, his hands hovered on her shoulders before coming to rest on the back of her head, patting her gently. “It will be alright,” he said. “I won’t let him hurt you.”

“Marry me.” It was so quiet, he wasn’t sure he’d hear it at first.

“Sansa…”

“Marry me,” she repeated, pulling out of his well-meaning grasp. Her eyes, her face were hardened with resolve as she looked up at him. “Do it tonight, at the sept. Maybe we can get Margaery to witness for us. Then they can’t touch us.”

He stared at her, open-mouthed.

“Please.” She tugged on his shirt. “Please, Theon, it has to be you. You’re the one I’ve always wanted all along. Remember when Jeyne and I used to fight over who would get to marry you?”

Jeyne Poole, Sansa’s friend. Theon hadn’t seen her since the day Ned Stark had been arrested. What had become of her? Cersei had made her disappear.

“I can’t,” he answered. “The Queen would punish us, both of us.”

“It can’t be worse than this.”

“It can always be worse.” He ran a hand through her long hair. It was tangled and in disarray from crying, and his fingers didn’t pull through very easily. “I swear, I’ll find a way to protect you.”

“I don’t want you to protect me.” She placed a hand against his cheek, against Cersei’s claw marks. “Not if it ends up with you hurt in my place.” She managed a small, small smile. “This way, at least, we can both be equally punished.”

He pulled away from her, shaking his head. “I’ll find another way.” She tried to reach out for him again, but he pulled open the door to his quarters. He hoped she wouldn’t try to follow him in. She did seem to understand, but the look of hurt on her face was more than he could bear at the moment. “I’ll find a way where neither of us is punished,” he said before closing the door on her. “I promise.”


	5. Chapter 5

Margaery had always been terrible at sewing, ever since she was a child. She’d had chubby hands as a young girl and no sense of grace with a needle. Her lessons often ended with her sucking drops of blood from whichever finger she had pricked that day.

“Why do I have to learn this?” she’d asked her grandmother once, on a day she’d been released from her lessons early. “We have servants to mend our clothes. Why do I have to get my hands dirty?”

Lady Olenna knelt down and took Margaery’s bandaged hand in her own. “You know nothing of getting your hands dirty, my dear.”

Margaery pouted in response.

“Would you rather be rolling in the dirt with your brother, learning how to knock men off their horses?”

“…maybe,” Margaery answered uncertainly. “I want to learn something _important_. I want to be taken seriously.”

“No, my dear, that is the last thing you want. You want to learn to smile and look pretty and always say, ‘Yes, please.’”

Margaery rolled her eyes. And to her surprise, her grandmother did the same.

“You do not want anyone to think you are a threat. Because if they think you are a threat, they will get in your way.” She patted the back of Margaery’s hand. “Tomorrow I want you to sit through your sewing lessons, no matter how many times you prick yourself. And if your mother asks you how you’re liking it, you will nod and say, ‘Very much.’ You don’t need to be good at sewing, dear, but you should act as if it gives you no greater joy in the world.” And she’d given Margaery a wink. “Because everyone knows that women who sew are no threat at all.”

That had been the beginning of Margaery’s “tutelage” under her grandmother. Of course, sewing itself hadn’t been the point, but rather the idea that she should train herself to smile through anything. She did still occasionally find herself picking up needle and thread, always with the same smile she’d learned as a child.

“Ah, your stitches are so even,” one of her handmaidens lied, looking over from her own work.

Margaery pulled the thread taut to make another rose petal. She’d made thousands of them over the years. Rose petals, rose petals. Perhaps she should learn to make stags. Or would lions be more appropriate?

“Thank you,” she returned, “though I’m afraid my hand isn’t very steady today.”

“You’re excited for your wedding,” the girl squealed, and Margaery agreed with a nod.

No mistake, she was excited. Excited to finally take her place on the Iron Throne. But the endless parade of dresses, flowers, decorations, menus, entertainers…if she could do away with the lot of it, she would. If she could say the silly words in the sept tonight, the words that would make her Queen, she would.

“Sansa’s much better at this than me,” she said, pretending to contemplate her work. “She was supposed to join us today. I wonder where she is.”

It seemed no sooner had the words left her mouth than she looked up to see Theon Greyjoy coming down the garden path. He had an oddly stiff gait, and his hands were clenched into fists at his side. Margaery set her work aside and stood to greet him.

“Theon, to wha—?”

He grasped the edge of the table and flipped it. Needles and spools of thread went flying. The gathered handmaidens screamed and ran from the pavilion like a flock of frightened birds. Margaery stayed stock still and refused to flinch, even when Theon then rounded on her.

“No more tables. No more sitting and talking. No more _walking_ and talking. No more _talking_.” He grabbed her arm, tightly.

“Stop, you’re hurting me,” she said without fighting back.

His grip grew tighter. “Did you ever have any intention of sending me home?”

What? “Of course,” she answered promptly.

He shook his head. “I don’t think you did. I think your promise to me was as empty as your promise to Sansa.”

“To Sansa?”

He glared at her, and she tried not to shrink back.

“You’re a liar,” he said. “As horrible as the rest of them.”

She tried to shake him of, a token effort. She had never learned to knock men down, like Loras had. “Why are you doing this?” And where were the guards? Her handmaidens had probably run to fetch them. If she could just placate him for a few minutes until they showed up…

“What do you want?” Theon hissed.

The question was unexpected, but after her initial shock, she steeled herself and met his glare. “You know what I want,” she hissed.

“I’m not sure I do.”

He released her suddenly. She pulled away and inspected her upper arm. He’d left a mark in the shape of his hand. All she could think of was how displeased her husband would be. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he _would be_ pleased. Perhaps it would give him ideas. She scolded herself for thinking that way. She was not afraid of Joffrey.

“I know you want the Iron Throne, but why? What do you hope it will give you?” He took a step forward. She took a step back, ready to run this time if he became violent. “You want power, of course, but power to…what? Better the lives of the commoners, that lie you’ve been spouting.”

“It’s not—”

“A liar knows a liar,” he interrupted her. “No, I don’t think there’s anything so benevolent about you. I think what you want is the ability to hold a man’s fate in your hands.”

She felt her hands clench at her sides. “Then you don’t know anything.”

“Don’t I?” He continued to stare her down. Then, to her surprise, he got down on his knees. Slowly, thoughtfully, and as if it pained him greatly to do so. He hung his head, but she could still see enough of his face to see he was glowering at the ground. “So, I’m giving you what you want. I’m yours. My fate, whatever you want from me…it’s yours. It’s in your hands.”

She couldn’t have been more startled if he’d slapped her across the face.

“Put Sansa on your ship in my place. Give her my cabin. Send her home, and I’ll…I’ll be your servant, your slave, whatever you want.”

“Theon…” She reached out to touch him, her hands suddenly itching to help him to his feet. There was too much distance between them, though, and she was terrified to take a step closer. Not because he would lash out, but because he’d so thoroughly caught her off guard. “I can’t,” she said at last. “Believe me, I would if I could, but I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because we need both of you.”

“We? You mean the Tyrells?” He looked up, his eyes accusing. “So…you didn’t intend to send me home?”

“I did! I swear, I did! I had every intention, but my grandmother…” This was ridiculous. She shouldn’t have to justify herself to him.

“Your grandmother…?” he prompted.

Her hands still itched to touch, so she hugged herself instead. “It’s politics.”

“So…there’s nothing, then?”

She shook her head.

He chuckled and shook his head in return. “I do know what you want, you know.” He started to get to his feet, just as the sound of running footsteps approached. “You want someone to acknowledge you.”

She opened her mouth to tell him he didn’t know as much as he thought he did. But then the goldcloaks were rushing in and tackling him. He didn’t struggle as two guards pulled his arms behind his back and another grabbed him by the back of the neck and him forced to stoop over.

He shot a look at her as he was led away. “Maybe I should have done what Cersei wanted me to do after all. At least then it would have been me. She’ll send others. She—” He was silenced by a gauntleted fist to his gut.

“I’m terribly sorry, my Lady,” the remaining goldcloak said, bowing to her. “He’ll not bother you again.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is. The thrilling conclusion. Or not. I probably wrote a hundred different versions of the last two chapters, with Theon doing something stupider and stupider each time. He's really not cut out for the Game of Thrones, but he is living proof that you don't always die if you lose. Sometimes you just suffer horribly.

The cell was dark and damp and, above all else, quiet. So quiet that the dripping of water was like cannon fire in his ears. He could count the time that way. By his estimate, he’d been down here several hours by now. Thrown in without so much as a word from the guards. He wondered if Cersei would come to see him. Or if this was it. If he’d made it easy for her.

He leaned his head back against the slimy walls and wondered if this was the cell they’d kept Ned Stark in, awaiting his trial. His farce of a trial. Everything in Kings Landing was a farce. It was morbid, but Joffrey had been right. Lord Stark’s death had been a mercy. Quick and resolute. And even though Sansa had had to witness it—as had he—she at least knew what had happened. She would never know what happened to Theon. She would wonder. She might even think he’d abandoned her.

The squeaking of the cell door blasted through his thoughts. He looked up in surprise. What he’d taken for a quickened dripping had actually been footsteps. A figure stood silhouetted against the door, lit from behind by a torch. A female figure. “Theon?”

“Sansa!” Theon leapt to his feet and surged forward, glad they had not bothered to chain him. He took her by the shoulders, and she hugged him in return. “Sansa, what are you doing down here?”

“The guard…” She nodded to the torch-bearer standing behind her. All Theon could see were the man’s eyes, staring impassively at them from behind his helmet. “When Margaery told me what happened, I—”

“Margaery told you?”

“She said there was a misunderstanding. She promised to have it cleared up. I hurried here as fast as I could.” She pulled him tighter with an amazing strength for a girl her size. “I know you did something stupid for my sake, Theon. Please, please don’t ever…don’t leave me alone.”

“No.” He stroked her hair. “No, I won’t. I promise.”

The guard grunted and gestured with the torch for them to step out. “I’ll escort you out,” he said.

Sansa stepped back and twined her fingers around Theon’s.

“If Cersei sees…”

“She’s not here.” Sansa’s smile faded as the guard’s torch drew away from them. “Just for now should be fine.”

Theon squeezed her hand back. “Just for now.”

They followed the guard as he made his way through the narrow hallways beneath the Red Keep. But when they reached the stairs that would take them upwards, he made a sharp turn and went down the adjacent hall.

Sansa and Theon stopped. “Where—?”

“This way,” he grunted.

Theon felt Sansa’s grip grow even tighter. “Don’t worry,” he said, squeezing back. “I’ll protect you.”

“We’ll protect each other,” she said as they began following after him. “I…I can’t fight, but maybe I could distract him while you take his sword?” She glanced up at him hopefully.

“If it comes to that, I want you to run while you can.” He didn’t dare say what he was really thinking. That this guard was one of Cersei’s men—they were all Cersei’s men. And he had been sent to have the both of them killed. Sansa too. Theon’s punishment for failing the Queen.

Still, there was little they could do. As Sansa had said, the man had a sword. They were in no position to argue. They followed several paces behind, even when he shot them a dirty look over his shoulder.

Finally, they came to a large, wooden door, worn and aged and ill-used. Whatever was on the other side had not seen the light of day in years, perhaps decades. Was it a deeper level of the dungeon? A room with tortures reserved only for the Crown’s most hated enemies?  As the guard fumbled with the keys, Theon shoved Sansa behind him and prepared for just the right moment.

Theon was about to strike, try to grapple with the guard long enough to give Sansa a chance to run, when he was stopped by a familiar sound. The sound of waves roaring against stone. He paused and craned his ear. No, the sound was unmistakable. But then what…?

The guard pulled the door inwards with a groan. The hinges groaned even louder. Moonlight spilled across the floor, illuminating the harbor beyond.

“Theon…” Sansa began.

The guard picked up his torch from where he had set it, then turned to them. He lifted his free hand and pointed out towards the docks, the ships like silent sea beasts moored farther out. “The one with the green sail. Your benefactor says she’s set up for a rowboat to take you aboard. Hopes you don’t mind sharing a cabin.”

Theon and Sansa exchanged looks.

“Well? Be quick about it,” he said in disgust. “You only have a few minutes to get aboard.”

“I…yes…” Sansa was the first to react. She grabbed Theon’s hand and pulled him along. “Give our thanks to our benefactor.”

The guard watched them with suspicious eyes. “Whatever. I was never here.” He pulled the door closed behind them.

They made their way down to the docks, where the late-night dock workers were still loading supplies onto and off of boats. It seemed their ship was a trading vessel. Good. Fewer passengers to be asking questions. Though Theon was starkly aware that neither of them had any sort of luggage, and nothing in the way of disguising their appearance.

A man with a lantern waved them over to a little rowboat. “You’re the two, eh?” he said, holding the light out, especially to examine Sansa. “One red-haired beauty and a surly youth.”

“Surly?” Theon cried.

“Your things have been loaded already,” the man said, gesturing for them to get into the rowboat.

Theon got in first and helped Sansa in after. The man joined them, gathered the oars, and shoved off.

The ride out to the boat was awkwardly silent. Sansa huddled against Theon, shivering in the night air. Theon put his arm around her and tried to work some warmth into her.

“A Lord and his Lady wife headed North, eh?” the man commented. “A cabin on a trading vessel…odd wedding present, I must say. Don’t the two of you know that winter is coming?”

“We know,” Sansa answered.

 

***

 

No sewing or cyvasse today. No strolling through the gardens. Margaery sat in her parlor, staring out the window to the courtyard below. There had been a flurry of activity early in the morning, the rattling of armor and the angry yelling of guards. Word was that Cersei was very put-out today and not receiving any visitors.

Margaery didn’t turn when she heard the footsteps approach from behind. She knew her grandmother’s shuffling gait anywhere.

“I won’t insult your intelligence by asking you,” Olenna began, “whether you did it or not. We both know you did.” She came up behind her and was silent for several moments, pretending to watch out the window as well. “Why?”

Margaery examined her fingernails. “Sansa was going to be handed over to the Lannisters. She had outlived her usefulness.”

“So you…handed her back to the enemy?”

“The Lannisters _are_ the enemy.”

Olenna made a noncommittal humming sound. “You realize that the longer this war drags on, the longer it will take to get you on the Throne, my dear.”

Margaery picked at a cuticle. “The Lannisters are the enemy,” she repeated with less conviction.

“So be it. Our last tenuous grasp on the North is gone. Vanished into the night after the Greyjoy boy managed to smuggle her out of the Keep. Steal her like the Ironborn are known to do.” She sighed as she finally took a seat. Margaery could hear her old bones creaking. “And what of the Greyjoy boy?”

“You’ll find someone else to take the fall,” Margaery answered.

“Oh, yes, there’s always another poor soul,” Olenna agreed.

Margaery winced as she pulled her cuticle free, then twirled it between her fingers. “I did it as a favor to Sansa.”

“Come now, dear. A liar knows a liar.”

Silence. Out in the courtyard, a guard yelled that there was no trace of the prisoners to be found, that they seemed to have just disappeared into the night.

Margaery sighed. “Grandmother, would you like to play a game of cyvasse with me?”


End file.
